At this point in my life, squarely in my middle thirties, death seems to follow me around like an over eager puppy.
I am under appreciative, the cycle of life being what it is
I struggle with my health. I try not to complain as much as I’d like to. No one likes a complainer. No one wants to hear your problems, not after the first week or so. Then it’s nut up or shut up time…and since I can not reach into my lungs and pull out their ever increasing weakness nor can I defy the realities of life and rescue my grandmother from the clutches of time…I do my best to not bellyache. Sometimes it works, other times it does not. My mileage varies.
I do like the enforced solitude, focusing my attentions on something more esoteric. (accepting the perpetual anxieties that accompany the title of single mom)
My mind settles like a hive of sedated bees, drifting in lazy circles
I catch up on my reading and try to think of something to say that is not wailing about this betrayal my body is treating me to or the degree to which I worry about my lovably daft mother or my decrepit but stubborn grandmother who is currently living out the last months of her life
today there is only the hum